


what are those utility boxes on rooftops called

by ImperialMint



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Deepthroating, Glove Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialMint/pseuds/ImperialMint
Summary: Peter likes Deadpool's gloves. A lot.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunarshores (damichan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damichan/gifts).



> errrrrrr self indulgent pwp for [lunarshores](lunarshores.tumblr.com)?
> 
> Enjoy!

It starts out as nothing. There’s a fight, some machoed up villain riding around on a centipede throwing some kind of ray blaster around, Peter does his thing, Wade does his, and they’re done. It’s a familiar routine, and Peter pauses as he watches Wade clean up, kicking a centipede leg out of the road. Their villain, in a fit of sheer brilliance, let the centipede eat him, and there had been no saving him, even after cutting the poor sucker open.

“It’s not like I wanted to kill your bro, Webs,” Wade says apologetically, wiping centipede goo from his hands. It doesn’t work, and he sighs. “Your cousin got me good, look,” he says, muttering something under his breath, and Peter looks down at the gloves being shoved in his direction. They could use a good wash, though knowing Wade, he’ll just discard them and grab a new pair.

“Not my bro or cousin,” Peter corrects blandly, taking the gloves and turning them over. Aside from centipede goo, they’re not actually in bad condition. They were probably new today, he thinks. It would be a shame to throw them out.

Wade shrugs, a smile crossing his face. Peter glances up, then away, rubbing the back of his head with the hand that isn’t holding the gloves.

“Spiders, centipedes…” Wade dusts his hands together, shifting his weight to the side. He’s blown off some steam, Peter can tell in the easier way he’s carrying himself now. It’s good to stretch legs, even if they’re treading down a precarious path. This battle and this villain were easy, no need to think much. They’ve been needing one of them.

Peter clenches his hand tightly around the gloves, fingertips curling against the fabric. It’s coarse and yet smooth at the same time, and Peter lets his mind drift, just for a moment.

“Whoa, Webs,” Wade says, his elbow resting against Peter’s shoulder, his weight something reassuring and terrifying at the same time. “If you need some alone time, just let me know. I mean I feel a little left out, but whatever rocks your boat, babe,” Wade continues, jostling Peter’s shoulder.

There’s heat on Peter’s cheeks, but Wade doesn’t see that through the mask. Instead of spluttering and letting Wade know exactly where his mind was wandering to, he makes a show of rolling his eyes and staring at Wade.

“Keep telling yourself that. I’m sure it makes great material for the spank-bank,” he returns, and moves away from Wade. His shoulder feels lighter, unburdened, and also very wrong. Part of Peter want to turn back and slip Wade’s arm over him, but that’s not something that can happen. He has the gloves, that’s all he can take.

“I’m off,” Peter announces, feeling generous, and waves before he shoots off into the evening. He doesn’t catch Wade’s reply, too busy with the roar of wind and the soar of the world. He keeps the gloves tight in his grip, and tries not to think too hard about them.

Peter spends a long time that night cleaning them meticulously. He leaves them to dry in his bathroom, and when they’re ready to be put back to use, he slips them into the drawer by his bed. And that’s that.

.

In all truthfulness, Peter forgets about the fact he stole Wade’s gloves. It’s three weeks before he remembers, and only then because he’s searching for Anna-Maria’s to-do list. She’d pressed it into his chest before the weekend, paper and everything, and Peter had promptly forgotten about it. He reasons he’s been busy this weekend, either fighting crime or slouched next to Wade in various places, but Peter doesn’t want to risk Anna-Maria’s wrath with an incomplete list.

Instead of a crinkled paper ripped from a recycled notebook, Peter’s hand brushes cloth. He pauses, wondering if he’s thrown socks, underwear, or even a blindfold in there. He grabs the cloth, lips parting when he realises it’s Wade’s gloves. Of course.

He’s sitting on the bed now, and Peter grabs for the other glove, setting one on each thigh, palm down. They don’t smell like Wade, but it’s easy for Peter to conjure up what reality lacks. He spent all night in Wade’s company last night and the scent of gun oil, sweat, and coconut lingers in his nostrils. The coconut’s a new thing, apparently a great moisturiser. Peter thinks it’s mainly to do with the hype for it at the moment, but it’s a good smell.

“As long as it’s not one of the monkey coconuts, you know Webs?” Wade had said, arm around the back of Peter’s chair. They’d gone casual at Wade’s club, Peter disguised once more. “Only go ethical. No monkey’s touched my coconuts.”

There’s jokes with that, but Peter’s behaved and left them alone. Wade’s done enough of that for the both of them, and at this rate he’s going to run out of puns before he changes moisturiser.

So it’s easy for Peter to imagine what they’d smell like if Wade was wearing them. His eyes flick to the clock atop his bedside table. It’s 11:39pm, and while he has a to-do list to find and complete, Peter suddenly knows he’s not going to be doing that tonight. There are more pressing concerns, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, wetting his lips.

It’s so easy to imagine these gloves filled with Wade’s hands. Peter knows them well. His hands are large, broad fingers, and dextrous. The things Peter’s seen those gloved hands do…

He takes a slight breath, eyes falling closed for a second as his own fingers trail the back of the gloves. He can feel the movement in his thighs, and it’s so easy to imagine someone else’s hands on him, a specific someone else at that.

If Peter were to allow himself, it would be Wade’s hands brushing his thighs, taking it slowly. He’d coax Peter just like he coaxes his weapons, fingers sliding over hilt or handle. Peter has seen it intimately, traced Wade’s every movement as he’s released his weapons. He is as much a craftsman as Deadpool, deadly and beautiful all in one. He’s dangerous, that’s for certain, and there is a lust in that danger that Peter finds enraptured by. He wants those hands on him. Never once has he imagined letting himself push past his fantasies, scared that Wade will reject him for who he really is underneath the mask. Since the gloves, however, Peter has been wanting to try it, throw out his worries and cares. They can figure the messy stuff out later.

His leg twitches, and Peter shifts, moving until both legs are flat on the bed and he’s leaning against the headboard. The gloves are still on his thighs, fingers spread over the muscle, and Peter runs his hand fondly against the material. It’s a feather touch really, but he feels goosebumps erupt over his skin, a tingle pooling at the back of his neck. It spreads, warm and loose, and Peter presses his thighs together, staving off the inevitable for a short moment.

The gloves are cool as he slips them on, fascinated at how much thinner his hands are compared to Wades. Whereas each digit is closely wrapped when Wade is wearing them, the fabric bunches, loose for Peter. They fall long of his wrist, draping over the bone, and Peter wishes he had a wrist guard to secure them. They’ll likely slip, though that’s a sacrifice he is more than willing to make.

Closing his eyes, Peter lets his hands trail from his hipbone, over the fabric of his pyjamas to his groin. His head falls back against the board as he palms his cock through his clothes, pushing up, imagining that it’s Wade’s hand. How would be do this, Peter wonders. Would he be slow and steady? Would it be manic and over quickly? There’s no way he can find out, or even hint that this is something he wants. Wade can never know about this.

It isn’t enough. Peter can barely feel the gloves through his clothing, so it’s an easy choice to push pyjamas and underwear down. They pool at his knees, and Peter draws his lip between his teeth as his fingers gently caress his inner thigh.

Peter knows what a touch feels like, knows what he enjoys when he touches himself, but this is different. The gloves are Deadpool’s, a man so powerful that death herself can’t keep him. He has no idea, but he has Peter at the mercy of his fingertips with his powerful grip. His own thumb brushes his balls, and Peter inhales sharply.

Would Wade take the time to explore, the first time? Would he open Peter up and break him down piece by piece? Peter likes to think he would. Wade is meticulous, despite some appearances, and Peter thinks he would be ruined by Wade in the best way.

One of his hands smooths over his cock, the material of the gloves almost too much. He feels oversensitive, and Peter draws back a moment, collecting himself. He wants to enjoy this, not force himself through it, and he tries again, pressing the tip of his finger against the head of his cock and stroking down.

He judders a little, smiling as his body accepts the touch, pleasure curling as his hand wraps around the head of his dick. Peter curls a little over himself, twisting his wrist and pulling gently at the top of his cock. He hums to himself, shifting back on the bed until his shoulders are slumped against the headboard. His hand moves slowly, lazily, and he fights not to pump his hips in time with the strokes of his hand.

The material of the glove slips, and part of Peter’s hand is exposed. He curls his lip slightly, letting go of his dick to tug the glove back down. It’s not ideal, and now his movements are more erratic it’s going to happen more than once. He doesn’t care though, not when he can feel the hot-cold flash building and the pressure digging in his stomach. It feels so good, and Peter slows down, one hand sliding against the muscle of his thigh as the other twists gently as he pumps himself.

He sighs. He can imagine Wade now, transfixed and focused. Peter doesn’t know if he’d prefer him mouthy or silent, but regardless he knows Wade would commit himself to the task. He’s a danger to his sanity, that’s the truth, and Peter felt his muscles bunch up. He’s close, and he lets his back arch, cupping his hands tightly around his dick as he pumps into the hole he’s made. The material is good, so good, and he jerks with his mouth open, coming hard.

He moves his hands slowly as he comes, and while Peter knows the gloves will be a mess, it feels too good to stop. He slows even more, until his hands are still, breathing heavily. He’s almost certain he’s bitten his lip hard enough to bleed, and he brings one of his hands up to press against his forehead, frowning as damp material touches him. Great, now he has come on his face.

Wade would have loved that, Peter thinks as he removes his hand, staring at the globules of come on the gloves. He feels proud of his work, and while it’s disgusting, he trails a finger over one of the rivulets, spreading it between thumb and forefinger.

“Fuck,” Peter sighs, letting his head fall back against the headboard as he takes in what he’s just done. Not only has he jacked off to thoughts of Wade (though it’s not the first time…), he’s come all over his gloves. If he keeps it up he’s going to develop a weird Pavlovian response every time he sees Wade fully suited, and while Peter doesn’t mind, really, his suit leaves nothing to the imagination. He can’t afford to pop a boner.

Peter takes the gloves off slowly and stands up, ditching his clothes momentarily. He got come on the shirt and he needs to wipe himself off; he’ll clean the gloves in the morning. He put them back in the drawer before heading to the bathroom, certain that he’ll have no need to return to this particular fantasy.

For someone so smart, Peter knows he’s great at fooling himself.

.

Wade’s arm is tight around his shoulders, pulling Peter along. He’s babbling away to himself, head shifting from side to side as they march forwards and away from the wreckage they just caused. Well. They didn’t cause it, supervillain mastermind of the week did, but that’s semantics according to the city council. There’s a particularly ruthless surveyor out for their blood at the moment, hence Wade’s arm steering him away from the wreckage and into the depths of a dark building.

Once, Peter would have been on alert in such a place. It’s not as if he’s relaxed coming in here – it’s got leaking pipes, water on the floor and stinks of human waste – but Wade had said he knew a shortcut, and Peter trusts him.

“Then there’s a left turn up here, babe, and then you can do your spew-spew thing,” Wade says, flicking his hands up at the wrist and jostling them. Peter takes the spew-spew thing to be his webs, and he rolls his eyes.

“Sure,” he agrees easily, and if he presses a little closer to Wade than necessary, no one needs to know. “It’s definitely a thwip-thing though.”

Peter does just as instructed. He does his spew-spew-thwip thing, gets them out of the shitty building through a hole in the wall, and they’re hurtling towards the sky, Wade’s laughter echoing in his ear. Peter tries not to think of the hands on his body as Wade grips tighter, most of his weight on Peter’s back. He fails, of course he does, just as he failed with returning the pair of Wade’s gloves and not masturbating with them.

He’s done it so much, it’s practically a habit by now. Peter registers he may have a slight problem.

Wade rolls off his back when they land on the roof of some high rise apartments. He darts around, as if he is a dog sniffing for their direction, and Peter closes his eyes for just a moment, listening to the muted rush of the city below them. It’s peaceful up here, a world just for the two of them, and Peter opens his eyes as he hears Wade close in on him.

His scent invades Peter’s senses instantly, and his eyes half-close. The adrenaline of the fight is wearing off, and heady lust is clouding him, the rush of a good fight and Wade’s smell powering in him. He wets his lips and pulls his mask up a little, the cool air steadying him. He hasn’t been listening to whatever Wade was saying, and forces himself to tune back in. He’s no horny teenager; he can control himself.

“-baby boy, wouldn’t you agree?” Wade’s smiling, head tilted as he waits for Peter’s answer. There’s a small pause, and he continues, hand resting on his hip as if Peter had answered. “That’s what I thought,” he says, humming as he flips the bottom of his own mask up, tongue flicking against the corner of his mouth. It’s not an attractive gesture, nothing about Deadpool is really, with or without the scars when you know him, but it sends fire burning through Peter’s body.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He knows, of course. He’s harboured this fascination with Wade for a long time, and the gloves escalated everything. He can pretend all he wants that he’s not imagining it’s Wade when he ruts against his hand, but that would make him a terrible liar. He’s always imagined it’s Wade, and the only reason Peter tries to convince himself otherwise is because he’s scared how Wade will react if (when) he discovers he’s Peter Parker.

Wade is next to him now, close enough that their shoulders brush. He peers out in the direction Peter is staring, shrugging a moment later.

“What’s so great that it’s more interesting than me?” he demands, and Peter can’t help the smile that springs to his lips. He doesn’t want to play around today, and perhaps that’s why he doesn’t sugarcoat his words or pretend to be someone he’s not. He’s tired of playing those kinds of games. For today, at least, he’s going to tell it how it is.

“You’re the only thing on my mind,” Peter says simply, and he turns to Wade. He can tell Wade’s taken aback, just for a moment, and so he waits as Wade presses his lips together, tongue settling against the corner of his mouth as he prepares his comeback.

It’s not like either of them are attached to anyone. Peter helped Wade through that particular grim business a few months back, and Peter might as well be celibate for all the dating he’s done recently. Maybe he should have tried hooking up with some people as soon as the gloves had entered his life, then he wouldn’t find himself on this particular roof trying to gauge whether or not he was about to jump all in. He’s on a thin line, but he can reel it back now. If he wants to.

“Hmm,” Wade says, gloved hand pressing against his cheek as he thinks. He’s short a comeback, and part of Peter feels proud that he’s left silence in his wake.

“I mean we’ve done the wining and dining already when you think about it,” Wade comments, and while Peter knows the words aren’t specifically addressed to him, he can’t help but agree. “Not that I’m presuming something,” Wade interjects quickly, flitting a guilty look up, as if he wants to reassure Peter there will be no debauchery going on today.

“Presume away,” Peter replies simply, and Wade’s mouth drops at that, shoulders slumping. Peter grins, leaning his weight on one leg, hoping the pose is casual. It’s not like he has experience with this kind of thing. The movies always make it look so much easier and less awkward.

Wade mouths the words Peter said, and under the mask, Peter knows he looks doubtful. And why shouldn’t he? If the positions were switched, Peter would assume this to be some weird game.

“Does he know what he’s asking for though,” Wade says, before his attention switches back to Peter. “Do you?” he asks softly, and Peter nods, words sticking in his throat. His eyes glance down to the fists Wade’s hands have formed, and he swallows thickly.

“I know,” he confirms, and Peter tilts his chin up, offering a small smile, hoping it hides the nervousness he feels.

Wade doesn’t say anything, but he steps slowly around until he’s before Peter. One fist unclenches, and Peter struggles to stay still as a thumb reaches to brush his jaw, slow and treading the waters. They can pull back right now, a small voice whispers in the back of Peter’s head, and he ignores it vehemently. He wants to do this.

“Maybe he doesn’t want the double bed with rose petals and Barry White in the background,” Deadpool says lightly, and Peter laughs. It’s so easy to let his hands catch Wade’s waist, to pull him flush, and their lips are almost touching when he replies.

“This is fine for now. Save the Barry White for next time maybe?” Peter feels bold, bolder than ever in his life. This is the feeling he gets when he’s climbing through the city, swinging free of inhibitions. This is the soar of the wind and the heartbeat of life, and Peter never thought it was possible to find such feelings with another person.

“Hey, did you hear that? There’s a next time-“ Wade begins, but Peter’s had enough of waiting. He curls a leg around Wade’s calf and presses close. Spandex does wonders in this situation, as Peter well knows thanks to a certain pair of gloves, and he hears Wade inhale before he kisses him.

They know everything about each other, body language wise, and so Peter isn’t too surprised that they fit together perfectly. Wade’s thigh rubs against his crotch and Peter’s hands slip to Wade’s ass, fingertips kneading the muscle. He’s perfect, Peter thinks, and he shifts his hips as he feels Wade bite his bottom lip, tongue sweeping away the burn a moment later.

“Hey babe,” Wade says, voice low and teasing. Peter barely restrains his shiver as Wade’s hand trails against his ribs, to his back and down to his ass. One of his hands is enough to pull them closer, and Peter closes his eyes as Wade grinds down, head tucking against his jaw.

It's not enough though. It’ll never be enough. Peter doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to return to those gloves again, not now he’s getting the real deal. There’s nothing in the world that will ever be able to compare to the real Wade Wilson, though Peter’s not going to be admitting that aloud to anyone anytime soon. Especially not Wade.

The suit is constricting, and Peter wants more. With a breathy sigh, he pushes Wade back an inch, reaching to undo his suit. It comes down in one piece, and he strips to his boxers. The mask stays on, an unspoken rule that Wade doesn’t care about but Peter does. After all, he’s just Spider-man to Wade. Peter Parker doesn’t enter the equation.

“Looks like someone’s been hitting the gym,” Wade comments cheekily, letting his wrist guards fall to the floor. They clang loudly, and for the first time Peter wonders if they’ll get caught. It sends a thrill through him (and that’s what should probably worry him more than the glove thing but oh well), and thinks they’ll be safe. They’ve done worse things on rooftops like this and never been caught.

“Keep the gloves on,” Peter says quickly as his eyes catch Wade making to remove them. He tilts his head curiously, but nods.

“The rest?” he asks, words muted. Peter wonders why they’re so docile, until he remembers the scars. Just because they’re mysteriously absent physically doesn’t mean they’re not there to Wade.

“Off,” Peter clarifies. “You can decide what to do with the mask.”

Wade complies quickly, the gloves remaining in place as he shucks everything else off. The mask stays too, half-rolled up like Peter’s, and Wade is all grin.

“I never knew you had such a fetish Baby-boy,” Wade says softly, encouragingly. He hums low suddenly, a bark of laughter escaping him. “That’s why you took the gloves!”

Peter shrugs, though he can feel the flush over his cheeks and neck. Wade can see it too, no doubt about that, and he moves quickly, pulling Peter close and laughing. He buries his head against Peter’s neck, trailing kisses in time with his laughter, and it feels so good, so right.

Peter’s hand cups Wade’s neck, pulling him close and hooking his leg around Wade’s waist. He grinds up, the material of his boxers coarse but not enough. Wade is quick to adjust though, tugging his boxers down and shifting them until they’re off, the feel of the gloves a complete distraction.

“Walk with me babe,” Wade whispers, parting long enough to scoop their pile of clothes under one arm, and then he’s tracking Peter back until they reach the small building Peter presumes is a shed for heating or electrics or something. He doesn’t care. It’s a surface, and all he wants are Wade’s hands on his cock.

Amongst other things.

Wade moves slow at first. His finger presses against Peter’s lips, and while he’s tempted to draw the glove into his mouth, he wants so see what Wade will do first. He’s glad he’s patient, for the finger trails down, dipping into the groove of his collarbone and lingering there lightly for a moment. Wade’s hand continues on, fingers curving over his nipples, one hand for each, and Peter’s chest heaves. Heat blossoms under Wade’s touch, and Peter lets his mouth fall open, soft sigh escaping him.

Wade moves quickly, one hand dipping to his waist as he presses forward. Their cocks align, and Wade kisses him breathily. It’s heated, Peter grinding up as he struggles to keep in time with Wade. It’s messy, a little awkward as they struggle to get their rhythm right, but it leaves Peter grinning and tilting his head to the side as Wade nips at his jaw, trailing lower and lower, leaving a blazing trail of heat in his wake.

It’s an easy progression that Wade’s lips move from sucking dark marks on his hip bones to mouthing down to the base of his cock. Peter tilts his hips, biting his lip as Wade’s finger presses to the tip of his cock, and watches as he regards Peter’s cock with interest, moving his finger gently against the tip.

He doesn’t say anything, and part of Peter wants to make some joke about this being the quietest Wade’s ever been and he doesn’t even have a cock in his mouth! He wants to say it, but the gloved hand curling around his cock distracts him, and Peter breathes in sharply, all thoughts of taunting Wade flying out of his head.

He can feel Wade watching him as he leans back against the wall, palms flat against the stone. Wade runs his thumb across his balls, and then he’s licking against Peter’s skin, lapping against the underside and curling his tongue around as his hands work the base. It’s so good, and Peter feels himself sinking low, pleasure curling through him. He feels as if he’s spiralling, and his eyes widen when Wade takes him fully, humming as if he’s carrying on a silent conversation. He probably is, and as long as he keeps this up, Peter doesn’t mind that he’s slightly distracted from the task at hand.

There’s nothing meek about the way Wade sucks dick. He’s messy, Peter pressing against the back of his throat more than once. Wade makes a choking noise each time, but he doesn’t dampen his enthusiasm. If anything, Peter would think he enjoys it, and an added thrill flows through him, just as he shifts his hand, feeling himself close to coming.

It’s with a noisy pop that Wade pulls back, saliva and pre-come dribbling down his chin. He sucks noisily, and Peter closes his eyes tightly, fisting his hands into Wade’s hair. He starts slowly, guiding himself into Wade’s waiting mouth, groaning as Wade’s tongue curls against him. He gives a shallow thrust, feels Wade pull him closer and his dick hits the back of Wade’s throat.

“Keep it coming, Baby-boy,” Wade says when Peter pulls back quickly, and Wade’s lips are pink and moist, his tongue darting out to lick the edge of his mouth. “There’s nothing I can’t handle, and I want this more than you, sweet cheeks.”

He doesn’t have time to comment on the name for Wade is swallowing him back down, going straight for it. His tongue sweeps the base of Peter’s cock, the tip of his dick shifting down his throat, and he moves. Peter is too shocked to do anything, but sense kicks in as Wade delivers a light flick to his inner thigh, precariously close to his balls. It stings, but it’s a good sting, and Peter knows what Wade wants.

His hands, which he hadn’t consciously let slip from Wade’s hair and yet did, slip back, rooting Wade’s head in place. Peter knows Wade well, and knows that if this wasn’t something he wanted, he’d make it clear. If he needs to, he’ll get out, regardless of Peter’s hold on him. It’s a little easier then, with that knowledge, and Peter’s stomach twinges with anticipation as Wade he just grins and holds the back of Peter’s thighs, gloves burning against tingling skin.

Peter tests the waters first, rolling his hips and letting saliva build up as he fucks Wade’s mouth. When the noise is obscene enough, wet and dripping, Peter moves further back, grunting as the angle of his dick changes. He can feel himself sliding down Wade’s throat, and he grips tighter, curling over Wade as he moves.

It’s amazing. Wade’s hands are firm on his thighs, gloves pressing red marks into Peter’s skin. He wonders what they look like and aches for more. Maybe later though, as Wade tilts his head to the side, the impression of Peter’s dick sliding against his throat with each thrust. It’s hypnotising, and Peter watches in fascination as he holds Wade in place, cock in as deep as it will go.

Wade’s hands tighten, but he doesn’t make to pull back. Peter can hear his moans, see the strain of his neck as he fights panic. Air isn’t going in, and Peter lets his eyes half-close as he feels Wade’s throat against his dick, trying to push him out. He holds himself there, breathing short and sharp, and just before he’s sure he’s about to come, he pulls back, Wade gasping and coughing as his visible skin flushes bright red.

“Oh, Webs,” he says, voice cracked and raw. Peter feels a tiny stir of guilt, it wasn’t like they explicitly talked about this after all, but it’s gone quickly as Wade wipes his lower face clean with his discarded underwear, the Spider-man print darkening. He smiles, teeth darting out to catch a dark lip as he lounges back for a moment, kneeling on the floor before Peter.

“If I’d known we’d be so compatible,” Wade says, reaching for Peter’s dick and stroking gently, shifting until he’s able to run the flat of his tongue over the tip, humming to himself as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Peter’s fingers twitch with the urge to grab Wade’s hair again, but he pauses. He wants the gloves on him, now more than ever.

“Should have done this a long time ago,” Wade mutters the gloves skimming over Peter’s balls and running up his dick. His toes curl, but Wade knows what to do and presses down hard around the base of Peter’s cock.

And though he’s ready to burst, and this had to be at least the second time he’s staved off coming, Peter’s glad. He doesn’t want this to end yet, not their first round anyway. He wants there to be many more times, but he wants this to be the one that burns every fantasy out of his mind.

He pants, head falling back against the bricks, and grits his teeth as his abs twitch, staving off his orgasm. Peter lets his eyes fall close as Wade kisses the inside of his thigh, languid, wet kisses that send shivers wracking through Peter’s body. He feels boneless already, and huffs out a laugh, wishing not for the first time he could be rid of the mask.

But there’s a reason it stays. They couldn’t have this if he took it off. It stays, and they are safe.

Wade cups his hands around Peter’s dick, and he jerks instantly, a sigh slipping past at the feel of them. Wade’s grip is strong, easily enough to crush a man between, and Peters feels high on that power. He rolls his hips forward as Wade moves his hands up and down slowly, altering positions until he slides his own dick against Peter’s.

“Ah,” Peter moans, looking at Wade with half-closed eyes. He has no idea what images he makes, but if he’s anything close to how Wade looks, he’s ruined for good. Wade’s hands are too good, the gloves too much, and he brings a hand up to grip at Wade’s shoulder, bruising the skin with how tightly he’s gripping.

“Wade, Wade, Wade,” he practically sings softly, tilting his head as Wade presses small kisses to his throat, teeth scraping the skin. Peter doesn’t care if he’s marked all over for the world to see. He doesn’t care if he aches something stupid in a few hours. It’s worth it.

“I know,” Wade says gently, wet kisses against his jaw and tongue sweeping his earlobe. Shivers roll through Peter, and he knows he’s close. He won’t be able to hold on much longer, not with Wade moving another hand around to palm his ass. The spark of pain is good, and Peter pulls Wade in for a kiss as he feels himself spilling over the edge, his chest bursting as pleasure floods through him.

It’s better than any fantasy he could have ever thought of. He can feel one of Wade’s hands slip away, his movements far more erratic, and he holds Wade as he comes, fluid coating his thigh and slicking down. And then Wade’s hand is back, stroking them together once more gently, bringing them down easily, slowly.

After this, Peter will never be able to use the gloves on their own again. He knows that, and he pulls back slowly, careful not to disengage from the hand at his waist. He isn’t ready to let Wade go just yet, doesn’t think he ever will be, truth be told.

The hand on his hip strokes lazy circles as Wade kisses him. It’s unlike the heated kisses before. It’s gentle, something questioning and hopeful. Peter wants to think it’s hope for a future they could share together, somehow. It wouldn’t be easy, but since when has anything been easy for either of them?

But that’s not something he wants to think about right now. That’s an issue for another day, month, year, take your pick. For now, Peter just wants to kiss Wade and let him trail his hands all over his skin.

It’s not just the gloves Peter has a thing for, but the hands in them too.


End file.
